


The Winchester Boys and the Case of the Double Murder Suicide

by Dram90



Series: Supernatural Not-a-fan Fic [2]
Category: Marx Brothers (Movies), Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Buffoonery, Costumes, Dark Comedy, Dean is a silly goose, Demonic Possession, Demons, Disguise, FBI, Harpo Marx - Freeform, I'm Bad At Tagging, I'm Not Ashamed, M/M, Murder Mystery, Not Canon Compliant, Sam is a sensitive soul, Visions, irreverent humor, marx brothers - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-20
Updated: 2020-10-20
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:56:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27112262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dram90/pseuds/Dram90
Summary: It has been several weeks since we've last seen our heroes.  Since then they've been bumming around the countryside, scamming sandwiches from scuzzy diners using stolen credit cards, all the while attempting to solve alleged paranormal mysteries.  They haven't succeeded as yet, but Dean has assured Sam that this particular case is the one.  Our story begins at the proverbial and literal scene of the crime.
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester, Harpo Marx/Dean Winchester
Series: Supernatural Not-a-fan Fic [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1843669
Kudos: 2





	The Winchester Boys and the Case of the Double Murder Suicide

Sam Winchester regarded the old fashioned soda siphon in his hands with the vague disgust of a put upon man.

"Dean, why do you even have this?"

Sam's brother looked up from the trunk of his black '67 Impala, his eyes seeming to spin in their sockets for what seemed like an eternity before they alighted on the seltzer filled soda siphon.

"It's a costume accessory, Sammy-boy." Dean squinted as the cobwebbed, rusty gears began to turn in his head for the usual interminable stretch of time. Finally, his face lit up and he grabbed the soda siphon out of Sam's hand and hefted it with a smirk, "As a matter of fact, it may be just the costume accessory we need."

Sam scoffed internally, "Just what kind of costume would require this ancient piece of junk-... Oh no." Dean - a shamelessly wide smile on his face - was already in the process of affixing a golden-curled wig to his head. "Dean, please," Sam continued, "we're trying to infiltrate a hot murder scene. You can't do Harpo. Not now. It's way too conspicu-"

Sam was rudely cut off mid sentence by the sound of a bulb horn. Dean silently pantomimed laughter. Sam turned away, scowling and grinding his teeth.

* * *

"It's a grisly scene, sir. I been the sheriff of this town for twenty-odd years now, and I en't seen nothin' like it. We got two vics in the livin' room, torn up real good. If you'll allow me to speak frank-like, it don't seem possible a human done it. They're shredded to ribbons in certain places, like an animal - maybe some kind of bear - done for 'em. Don't rightly know what kinda tool might make such marks on a man, were it a man who done it. We got another body in the bedroom, one bullet to the head. Self-inflicted is the word goin' round, makin' her suspect one, though she don't appear to have no blood spatter that en't her own anywhere about her person. With all the blood 'pon the living room walls and ceiling, probably I don't see how our suicide vic could'a done for them two, and she were only sixteen at that. We've a survivor out there by the ambulance, suicide vic's twin sister. Suspect two and possible witness, though she en't said nothing as yet, much as my deputy and I try to talk to her. Might be you and your...partner...will have better luck."

Sam Winchester - dressed in a sharp but plain black suit adorned only with a golden FBI badge on the front, left breast pocket - nodded to the small town sheriff, giving only a cursory glance to his "partner" Dean. He tried not to wince. Dean was dressed in a ragged, many-pocketed, beige trench coat over a white-spotted blue dress shirt, partially untucked from a pair of high-waisted brown and green checkered pants. Upon his curly, golden, bewigged head sat a black top hat, cocked back and slightly to the left. Sam noticed during his brief glance that Dean's cheeks were puffed up, his tongue was out, and his eyes were crossed. Sam bit the inside of his cheek and forced himself to smile, solemnly, at the sheriff.

"We'll talk to her, my partner specializes in trauma victims," Sam said wearily glancing over at the distraught young woman, the sheriff nodded suspiciously. "He's very good at what he does," Sam added.

The three of them stood there for several silent moments as Dean's face changed to a guileless smile. He batted his eyes at the sheriff and looked away coyly.

The sheriff cleared his throat, "Good then, that's...good, uh," obviously unbalanced by the one peculiar FBI agent, he visibly collected himself, "I reckon it's good you federal boys are here. We en't seen nothing like this before, as I said. This is a quiet town with good people; Christian, God-fearing folk. I just can't imagine this was done by one'a ours."

"Thanks for the briefing, sheriff," Sam jumped in, eager to get away from the seasoned law man, "we'll take it from here. We're just going to head inside and see what's what."

The sheriff nodded and stood away from the Winchester boys as they walked into the front door of the crime scene. He noticed that the strange one ambled like a party clown, and ran face first into the door several times, like you'd see on a comedy picture show. The black-suited one had quiet, acidic words with his partner before they entered the home. The sheriff turned towards the ambulance where the survivor sat with downcast eyes next to his deputy, who looked back at him and shrugged. The sheriff shook his head and pulled out a cigarette.

* * *

" _God fucking damnit, Dean, you fucking retard, you almost fucking blew the whole fucking thing with your dumb fucking character!_ " Sam whispered acerbically after he'd closed the door behind him. Hours of pressure and frustration were finally boiling over. " _Cut the shit, fuckface, or I'll knock you the fuck out and do this shit myself!"_

Dean stared blankly at Sam, silent and wide-eyed after his brother's outburst. Sam sighed and suddenly felt absurdly guilty.

"Listen, Dean, I didn't mean any of that, I'm just a bit tense," Sam reached out and laid his hand on his brother's shoulder which resulted in a loud **HONK** that made him jump. Dean burst out into a frenzy of silent belly laughter, slapping his knee and comically wiping an invisible tear from his eye before pulling out yet another bulb horn from his trench coat and honking it playfully.

Sam stared at him, dead-eyed and unspeakably tired. "Fucking idiot." He turned away from his (Marx) brother's pretend hooting and howling, and plunged into the dimly lit house.

Upon entering the living room, Sam let out a wordless exclamation and physically recoiled, overwhelmed by the urge to flee in the opposite direction. The sheriff had clearly warned him of the gruesomeness of the scene. _But nothing prepares you for this,_ Sam thought, holding his hand over his nose and mouth, resolutely re-swallowing his lunch. He forced himself to look, to bear witness to the violent aftermath of this needless suffering.

What had struck him first was the smell. Iron and bile and human waste, thickening the air with a moisture and odor so palpable that Sam could feel it coating his skin, the inside of his mouth, his lungs. The walls and ceiling were spattered here with bright red, there with dark, and all around with small chunks of flesh and fragments of bone. In the center of it all were two lumps of viscera and rib cage, heaped and spread about on the red-soaked carpet, now only vaguely resembling what could be considered human bodies. He looked away, unable to bear another second of the monstrous tableau. For most of his life, Sam Winchester had lived in complete doubt of his father's proclamations about the supernatural, the things that go bump in the night. When it came to John Winchester, every dark corner of the room held a ghost, around ever bend was a demon, and in every forest there was most certainly a werewolf or a wendigo. _"There are monsters, Sam,"_ he would say, his breath thick with whiskey, _"they are among us, and they are dangerous. And until you've seen the things that I've seen, don't you judge me."_ Sam did judge him, although Dean was quick to drink the kool-aid. Their father had been missing for nearly two months now and Dean had insisted it was the very demon that had been, allegedly, responsible for their mother's death (which had occurred when Sam was but a babe in arms), but Dean always insisted everything was a demon's fault. It wasn't until now, standing in this gore-stained room, ankle deep in an inexplicable atrocity, that Sam Winchester had ever really considered the possibility that, maybe, there _are_ monsters, and they _are_ among us. 

A loud _squelch_ interrupted Sam's ruminations, his eyes shot to the source. Dean stood in the middle of the crime scene, one foot stood in the open torso of a corpse; his eyes widened in cartoonish surprise and he offered Sam an exaggerated "oops" shrug. Sam stared at him in silent shock. Dean tried to pull his foot out of the corpse but it caught on the ribcage. The torso lifted off the blood-soaked carpet with a wet, sucking sound. Dean shook his leg to no avail, the torso cracked and crunched but remained firmly on his foot, leaking a dark ichor. Sam watched on in wordless horror as his brother hopped around the room on one leg, smacking the torso against the floor and wall in an effort to dislodge it, spattering the room with even more bloody discharge wherever he went. The finale came when Dean slipped on a particularly oily patch of blood (Sam swore he heard a slide whistle from somewhere) and grabbed at a bookshelf in an attempt to steady himself. He only succeeded in bringing the bookshelf with him. Dean landed squarely on his back with a _splat_ and the bookshelf came down next, spilling heavy volumes of literature everywhere in a thunderous cacophony of clunks and clatters. Sam numbly regarded the new addition to an already macabre diorama; one leg jutting straight up into the air out of a bloody heap of books, flying a ruined torso like a flag. Sam Winchester cleared his throat, checked his watch, and walked away. Several honking noises punctuated his withdrawal.

Sam made his way down the hall to the first floor bedroom. He felt like he'd entered a completely different house. The hall was spacious and long, the carpet and walls were neat, tidy, and free of any stains. At the end there was a white door, slightly ajar. Sam mentally prepared himself for what he knew he would find on the other side of it. He took a moment to appreciate the spotless hallway, took a deep breath, and walked forward.

The door eased open with an agitated creak, revealing vague shapes robed in velvety darkness. Sam flipped on the light switch and the room came to life. The beige-colored walls were clean to the naked eye, large windows were covered by horizontal eggshell blinds. The room's decor was sparse and prosaic, made more apparent by the spaciousness of it. Sam's eyes purposefully avoided the center of the floor, he caught the shape only peripherally but never straight on. There was no comfort in the fact that the rest of the room seemed so neat and clean.

 _Alright then,_ he thought, girding himself, _gotta look sometime._

Laying face up in the center of the tidy room was a young woman, who appeared as though she'd just laid down for a nap. The only details indicating otherwise were the small red hole in the center of her forehead and the large red stain on the carpet behind it. Having only minutes before seen her exact double - alive and not entirely well - out by the ambulance, Sam felt suddenly queasy. Alive, she would have looked hale and vibrant, but seeing her lifeless body made Sam realize how small and fragile she was, like a broken-winged bird.

_She was just a girl... I'm not cut out for this._

Sam swallowed and firmly cleared his throat, pushing away his self doubt and the unbidden thoughts of his late girlfriend who had perished in a fire only a month past. He approached and crouched next to the _cadaver_ , and thought of it as such, because thinking of it as a human being made it too painful. The cadaver clutched a small .38 snub nose revolver in her right hand and a pack of Marlboro cigarettes - squished by rigor mortis - in her left. One cigarette laid next to her head, soaked through and red. The coloring and oxidization of the blood behind the body's head indicated that the alleged suicide had taken place hours earlier that day, possibly around noon. The atrocity in the living room seemed more fresh, for lack of a better word. Sam glanced up at the ceiling and noticed no discoloration; she wasn't a frequent smoker or at least didn't make a habit of smoking inside very often, he deduced. He paced around the room looking for a suicide note while he rolled on a pair of blue nitrile gloves; he found none out in the open, and nothing in the drawers or cabinets. There was nothing on the bed but a fine mist of blood. Sam came back to the corpse and knelt beside it. He searched through her jeans as gently as he could, averting his eyes from her head which lolled sickeningly as he rooted through her pockets. He found no note.

Sam sighed, this was quite a quandary for a pretend FBI agent. In spite of Dean's absurd antics and beliefs, Sam felt that the severity of the living room savagery might actually indicate something supernatural at play. The bodies there looked like they had literally exploded. This was the closest Sam had come to being convinced of the veracity of Dean's demon proclamations, but the plainness of this suicide was a fly in the ointment. The lack of a note was problematic, and the cigarettes didn't fit. Smoking one last cigarette before blowing your brains out made sense to Sam - insofar as anything in this house was sensible - but the cigarette next to the corpse's head hadn't even been lit. The realization that he was out of his depth began to encroach on Sam's mind again.

"Okay, Sammy," he whispered to himself, looking back at the victim's face, "if this is a supernatural case, then I need to think like a supernatural detective... I have to think like Dean."

Sam relaxed the pragmatic grip on his mind, letting reason and logic slip away as he tried to see this case through Dean's eyes and with Dean's mind. He went cross-eyed and his thoughts immediately turned towards grilled cheese and prostitutes. _No, no...too much like Dean._ He got control of his thoughts and focused on the girl before him. A vision struck him.

* * *

_The girl wages an internal war with the demon trying to overtake her mind. It is an old and powerful demon, a malevolent force irresistible to one so young. It seizes her body, and then her mind, but she fights back every step of the way. The demon thinks itself victorious and reaches for a pack of cigarettes with one hand, while the girl reaches for the revolver with the other. She levels the gun at the demon's head...HER head, and - in one last act of desperate defiance - pulls the trigger. The demon roars hellish fury as it feels its vessel die. The girl's last thought is of her family. Hours pass and the demon refuses to give up its hold on the vessel, lying in wait, not dead but dormant. The girl's sister walks into the room they share, she shrieks in agony and retreats. Just out of reach. Thirty seconds pass and the door bursts open to reveal the girl's fathers. They'll do just fine. One of them turns away, retching and moaning. The other approaches, his eyes glistening, his expression distraught. He kneels next to the vessel and grabs its hand. The demon slips into its new vessel. It looks down at its former vessel through the eyes of a devastated father. The sadness washes away, replaced by malice and satisfaction. It turns to the other grieving father, its mouth watering._

* * *

Lanced by a white shock through his mind, Sam was violently jolted out of his vivid vision and into lucidity. Sweat beaded on his forehead, his eyes began to dim and blur, his temples ached, and his heart beat faster than a startled rabbit's. He unsteadily lowered himself to the floor and laid on his back. Minutes passed, but his breathing finally normalized and he got himself under some semblance of control. Sam slowly and cautiously stood up. He looked over at the girl for a time, wishing he had been there. He had never actually attempted an exorcism, but his father had taught him how. Sam resolved that her sacrifice would not be in vain. After he left the room, he found Dean sitting on the kitchen floor surrounded by apple cores and banana peels, patting his stomach contentedly . The torso was still on his foot. Sam scowled, crouched down, and ripped the torso off. When his hands touched the torso a distorted image flashed in his bloodshot mind's eye: an old, dilapidated warehouse pulsing with darkness.

"Let's go, Harpo," Sam said tiredly, heaving the torso back into the living room. It landed with a splat as Sam stripped off his bloody nitrile gloves. "I need to talk with the witness, don't screw this up."

Dean honked one of his bulb horns affirmatively and offered Sam a banana.


End file.
